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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22626805">carry it with you if you want to survive</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/freudiancascade/pseuds/freudiancascade'>freudiancascade</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canon-Typical Body Horror, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Gothic Pacific Northwest Aesthetic Shitposting, canon-typical corpse desecration, dubious ghost physics, friendly ghostly possession, supernatural road trip from hell, the Exhausted Asexual Dream Team, the haunting distant strains of the Reading Rainbow theme song in the background</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-02-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 00:47:29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>14,706</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22626805</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/freudiancascade/pseuds/freudiancascade</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“How do you end up in this line of work without knowing how to throw a punch?!” the ghost says. His head is cocked curiously to the side, and his dark hair drifts in front of his eyes.<br/>“I am an Archivist!” Jon hisses under his breath. “It wasn’t exactly in the job description!”<br/>Gerard scowls right back, unimpressed. “And I’m a very particular brand of homeschooled literary snob, but I still know how to break a nose.”<br/>“You are a GHOST.”<br/>“Well, at least I know how to get creative! Something you might want to consider learning if you plan to survive any of this, mate.”</i>
</p><p> </p><p>(Gerard Keay and Jonathan Sims go Leitner-hunting. No part of it goes according to plan.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Gerard Keay &amp; Jonathan Sims</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>293</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>carry it with you if you want to survive</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Thanks to everybody who contributed to this and let me ramble at them about it (especially you, Lex!). Note this fic is set towards the tail end of S3 and was mostly written prior to S4 airing, but I didn’t have it in posting condition at that time and only recently polished it up to release. As such, it contains scenes where characters discuss in-universe concepts (especially the Entities and their claims) that have been elaborated on or completely shifted in current canon--please assume those bits are just characters speculating based on the information they had access to at the time.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It is not the Archivist’s fault that he misses his flight back to London.</p><p>Jon is in Dulles International when he notices he’s being followed. More precisely, he is in the middle of emptying his water bottle into a potted plant just outside the security checkpoint, because apparently Americans get rather uptight about bringing that sort of thing onto a plane. Given his recent entanglements with the law he’s certain he’ll already be in for a vigorous pat down (thank you for <em> that </em>, Elias), and it takes him perhaps longer than he should to notice his pursuer. He’s distracted by hoping the blue-clad TSA agents don’t notice the sheet of literal human skin he’s got in his rucksack, and wondering if he’s done enough to keep it safe. He’s hidden Gerard Keay’s page inside a Bible stolen from a hotel drawer to make it less likely to be discovered upon a search, but it would be entirely his luck for it to be found all the same. Jon half-wonders why he hasn’t just burnt the thing already, but it’s a futile line of reasoning and he knows full well why he’s refrained. Besides, there’s nothing he can do about it now, not with the no-smoking signs posted every few meters. </p><p>All things considered Jonathan Sims has a lot on his mind, and so it takes him a few extra beats to figure out that he’s under supernatural threat. Again. Sue him. He’s a paranoid bastard these days, he’ll be the first to admit it, but nobody can be their best selves 24/7.</p><p>His first reaction is anger, oddly enough. It flares bright and hot in the pit of his stomach--<em>seriously, again? We’re doing this again?</em>-- and then he tamps it back down and tries to think. It is an airport, for heaven’s sake, and it is going to funnel people towards a central location. It could be coincidence that this person has been mirroring his movements through the terminal, limbs twisting with jerky, unnatural imitations of fluid life. No need to panic just yet. </p><p>The potted plant is, it seems, not a genuine article but a plastic imitation of foliage. Water splashes out over the solid foam core base and onto his shoes--much more worn now than they were this time three months ago--and Jon yelps softly to himself. He swiftly abandons the water bottle on the edge of the terra cotta pot, and moves away from the security queue.</p><p>The stranger follows.</p><p>Not a coincidence, then. Damn. </p><p>Jon walks faster.</p><p>A second man, identical to the first one behind him, looms out of the crowd and grabs him by the shoulder. It’s hand is thick and heavy and feels like wax, and it sends a cold shiver of revulsion down Jon’s spine. </p><p>“Can I--” Jon begins, and then stops and clears his throat. He tries again, more authoritative this time, deliberately not staring down at the misshapen fingernails digging into the fabric of his coat. They do not look like human fingernails, but instead like what a child would draw if asked to put fingernails on a stick figure’s hand. They are thick, blocky, awful things, either too symmetrical or not symmetrical enough. Jon does not want them touching him, but knows it would end badly if he gave into the instinct to twist away. “Can I help you?”</p><p>“Looks like we’re on the same flight, Archivist.” The not-person leans in close, leering. It smells a little like cloves, and a little like rancid meat. “Gonna be a fun one.”</p><p>And then it releases him. </p><p>Jon turns, and deliberately does not run.</p><p>There’s a third one of them, lingering by the restrooms, robbing him of the opportunity to splash some water on his face and gulp down air and try to think. It is wearing a different color shirt than the other two, he thinks. Definitely a distinct, third entity. There is a thick, heavy-bound book under this stranger’s arm, and it makes Jon’s stomach twist to look at the unnatural way it’s fingers move as they drum a pattern against the embossed spine.</p><p>The Archivist leaves the airport very quickly after that.</p><p>It’s all something of a blur, trying to hold his head high as he beelines for the door. He’s shaking a little bit as he stumbles out into the cool night air, and he shoves his hands firmly down into the pockets of his slacks to hide it. Behind him, he can feel the impassive gaze of the trio of strangers searing against his back. He wants to throw up, or cry, or turn on his heel and start yelling at them. He does none of these things--instead, he keeps walking.</p><p>They do not attempt to follow him, standing shoulder to shoulder in the doorway. A woman with a rolling suitcase tries to get around them; they do not move. She <em> does </em> give into the urge to yell. They remain blocking the door.</p><p>Jonathan Sims can, on rare occasions, take a hint. He does not attempt to find another entrance and go through security again, and thus misses his flight home entirely.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Jon books himself into one of the many motels clustered around the airport. </p><p>He is wise enough now to use a fake name, and his hands are still shaking hard enough that it takes three tries to swipe the keycard properly in the door. Once safely sequestered inside his room he sits on the edge of the bed, trying very hard to not think about how long it’s been since the mud-colored duvet was properly cleaned. He tries to tell himself it does not matter; he does not intend to sleep. Instead Jon records a statement about his experience in the airport, and then pulls the Bible from his bag and stares at it in silence for what feels like a very long time. He knows he should feel somewhat sacrilegious, but all he can really manage is exhaustion.</p><p>The skin page is laying right where he left it when Jon cracks the spine of the book. It appears unharmed. </p><p>Jon does not need to read the entire recounting of Gerard Keay’s death this time. The ghost materializes two lines in as though he’d been waiting to be called, a hand on his hip and a scowl embedded on his face.</p><p>“You're worse than those damn hunters,” Gerard says by way of greeting, his chest moving in a convincing imitation of breath. His dark hair falls in front of his face as he scowls, “Least they never promised me anything. I don’t know why I bothered hoping for better from you, honestly.”</p><p>Jon watches him warily. “I thought I owed you an explanation why there’s been a delay. That’s all, Gerry.”</p><p>“Gerard, please. I’ve been fucked over by the Archivist before, guess this particular disappointment really is on me. Fool me once, and all that. I mean--hang on, you <em> do </em>look half dead, yourself.” The ghost pivots a glance around the room, frowning. “We’re still in America?”</p><p>“I was attacked by an avatar of the Stranger before I could get through security.” Jon rubs tiredly at his eyes. “Three of them, actually. Identical. One of them carried a book, and they really did <em> not </em> want me getting on that plane.”</p><p>“Aw, pumpkin. Did the big creepy not-people give you a nasty shock?”</p><p>Jon looks up now, feeling his face twist. “It was reading out of a <em> book</em>, Gerard.”</p><p>“Congratulations! It was literate!”</p><p>“The book looked like a Leitner.”</p><p>“Yeah, actually, I got that through context cues, creepy magic tome with horrible arcana used for the service of some horrifying monster, and all that jazz. Fascinating. <em> I don't care</em>.”</p><p>“I still intend to do it, Gerard,” Jon says softly. “Burn the page. I will. I just--I think I need help, if I’m going to get back home.”</p><p>The ghost folds his arm, his gaze flat. “I’m sure Gertrude had her reasons and intentions, too, for what she did to me, and that doesn’t mean for a moment that I’m even going to consider--wait. Hold that thought. Archivist?”</p><p>“Yes, Gerard?”</p><p>“I’m going to ask you a question and I need an honest answer, right this second. So. <em> Did you have me hidden in your Bible.” </em></p><p>“Oh. It’s. Well.” Jon’s laugh is a hollow, small thing. He likes to think he’s still largely himself, even as something colder and larger creeps in around his edges sometimes, but at moments like this it sure feels like his entire being is a facade that’s one moment away from irreparably cracking. His thumb moves unconsciously over the cover of the Bible in his lap, the burned nerve endings not quite responding right to the texture of the binding. “Technically it’s not <em> mine </em>. I might have borrowed it without asking or intention of returning--”</p><p>“Holy shit.”</p><p>“Yes, Gerard, that does sum it up.”</p><p>Gerard Keay huffs, lifting a challenging eyebrow. Jon meets his eyes firmly, and folds his own arms over his chest. For a long moment they evaluate each other, neither one speaking. </p><p>It’s Gerry who cracks first, looking away with a grin twisting his face and mirth making his form quiver around the edges. “Wow. Let’s just assume my entire first impression of you was wrong, and you’re a <em> total </em>bastard. I can respect that.”</p><p>“I’m not,” Jon protests weakly. “I’m just--”</p><p>Exactly what Jonathan Sims <em> is</em>, in lieu of being a total bastard, is not to be determined at this moment in time. His sentence is interrupted by a knock on the door, firm but insistent, and Jon instinctively <em> knows </em>that the hand making that sound is not a human one.</p><p>His eyes widen with panic. </p><p>Gerard Keay, though, does not seem worried. He simply squares his shoulders and solidifies a little bit more firmly into the room. Jon is suddenly and forcibly reminded of the sheer number of statements in which this man came face-to-face with unimaginable horror and <em> won </em>. If anything, Gerard sounds bored as he asks, “Did you purposely invite your assailants around for tea, or are we figuring this one out on the fly?”</p><p>“Well, I doubt they’d be interested in scones with cream,” Jon hisses. “Not that America has decent ones, anyways.”</p><p>Gerard nods. “In that case, you may want to hide. We’ll have to improvise.”</p><p>Jon ends up squeezing himself inside the small front closet, the stolen Bible still tight in his grip. When the door to the room comes crashing open, the lock reduced to twisted metal and the keycard scanner emitting a dismal whine, he is not at all surprised to see his airport assailant silhouetted in the middle of it. His breath catches in his throat, and something like bile rises up from his stomach in his terror.</p><p>“Bit rude, mate,” Gerard says calmly from where he stands in the middle of the room. He still sounds bored, even as the creature with the horrible wax hands advances upon him. “Dumb luck that I was even decent in here, really.” It paces past the closet; Gerard stands his ground. “Huh. Least you brought something to read. That’s decent enough of you. Don’t suppose you’d let me get a closer look at that, would you?”</p><p>It is not likely to answer, and so Jon chooses that moment to leap from the closet with a frantic yelp, adrenaline shoving him forwards.</p><p>The Bible is still in his hands; Jon brings it down with a crack on the back of the monster’s head, revulsion rising in his gut as the skull of the creature warps like wax instead of taking the hit like bone. It twists, neck swivelling in a way that defies human anatomy, to hiss at him through a cavernous maw--</p><p>--and then freezes.</p><p>Gerry has plunged his hand in through the monster’s chest, his teeth bared as his spectral fingers grasp coldly over the spot where a beating heart should be. The monster squirms in revulsion; Gerard holds firm, glancing over at Jon with a snarl, “Archivist, do me a favor and ask him--nicely, would you--where the hell <em> that </em>came from.” He jerks a nod over at the Leitner open on the floor. “I have questions. Seeing as I’m very certain I saw it destroyed half a decade ago.”</p><p>Jon clears his throat, awkwardly rising to his feet. He draws in one deep breath and then another, and then allows the compulsion to layer itself thick like honey on his tongue, “<em> Where did you obtain that book</em>?”</p><p>The creature’s hands clench and then unclench against the worn fabric of its pants. “<em> Olde Worlde Books </em> , a shop in Portland. It’s been trafficking the damn things. I--why the <em> hell </em>am I--”</p><p>“Thank you, Jon,” Gerry says, holding firm even as the outline of the rest of his body starts to flicker. “Next question, repeat after me if you please: what’s the easiest way to kill you?”</p><p>Jon blinks. “Gerard, I’m not sure we should--”</p><p>“Really? Because our friend here certainly won’t hesitate to kill you, in turn. If you’re lucky. Realistically, this is likely to end much worse for you.”</p><p>“I know! I know, Gerard, but I’m not sure <em> I </em>can--”</p><p>“Well, you’re going to have to figure out pretty damn fast where you stand on this kind of thing,” Gerard replies. He frowns, another wave of static rolling through his body at the strain. “Is that a no, then? Fine. I’ll--I’ll figure something else out. You get ready to run, yeah?”</p><p>Jon is already moving to the worn rucksack by the bed, hefting it quickly over his shoulder. The creature of wax and malice grunts in pain, and Gerard makes a small sound that--coming from anybody else--would be akin to a whimper. </p><p>When Jon turns back, the creature is motionless and Gerard is straightening, looking at his own spectral hand in distaste. “If we’re lucky, you’ve got a five minute head start. Gods, that was unpleasant.”</p><p>Jon does not need to be told twice. He stops just long enough to scoop up the abandoned Leitner from the floor, weighting it in his hand. It’s bound in thick black leather, uncomfortably warm to the touch, and there is no title embossed on the cover.</p><p>Gerard goes suddenly, entirely still. When his face moves it’s in stop-motion jerks, as though it can’t quite determine how to make itself emote smoothly. The ghost flickers around the edges, slipping from the middle of the basement to right in front of Jon, and then back again without changing physical posture. “<em>Put that down</em>!” he hisses. “<em>Shit, Archivist--Jon--put that down right now!</em>”</p><p>Jon realizes this is the first time he’s seen Gerard Keay afraid. “You recognize this one.”</p><p>“I do, and--oh, damn it <em> all</em>!” Gerard breaks off cursing, cycling through profanity in several different languages. It makes Jon’s head ache, and he tucks the book in his bag.</p><p>“It comes with us,” Jon insists, wrenching the door open and stepping out into the hallway.</p><p>A drained Gerard Keay drifts sullenly behind.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Jon does not recall hailing a cab, slipping inside it, and frantically requesting a ride to the nearest train station. He pins himself down against the backseat, trying to make himself impossible to see through the tinted windows. Gerard lounges beside him, attempting to look as natural as possible against the cracked leather seat. The driver, mercifully, does not attempt to make small talk.</p><p>“Sounds like we’re heading to Portland, then,” Gerard muses, glancing sideways at Jon. He is much calmer now than he had been, though his dark hair still floats around his head in an unsettled halo.</p><p>“No, we’re headed to the nearest city with an airport, and I am going home.”</p><p>“If the Stranger’s got a Leitner supplier, your job just got a whole lot more dangerous. Even if you can’t cut that supply off, it might be worth at least determining what they’ve got and how they’re using it.”</p><p>Jon does not have a proper argument to that. His head is spinning.</p><p>“Don’t look quite so dour,” Gerard continues, brushing a translucent lock of poorly-dyed hair back from his face. “Lucky for you, I’m good at that bit.”</p><p>“What changed your mind?” Jon asks, frowning. “I was under the impression you’d stopped caring about, what was it, <em> creepy magic tomes with horrible arcana used for the service of some horrifying monster</em>?”</p><p>The ghost shrugs. “Easy. I’d like to find whoever took that volume that’s in your bag and brought it across the pond, and...have stern words with them about it.”</p><p>Jon automatically reaches for his bag and the book shoved haphazardly inside it; Gerard hisses.</p><p>“Don’t bloody touch it! You don’t want to play with that one, Archivist. Just...trust me. If it came from Portland, that shop must have been doing business with my mum, and there’s no telling what else it’s unleashed on this side of the world in general and your current enemies in particular.”</p><p>“You still made it clear you don’t consider that your problem.”</p><p>The ghost looks tired, and turns his head to watch the world pass by through the window. “Your predecessor thought I might be useful. Hate it, hate every second that I’m stuck here inside this stitching of skin and self, but...she wasn’t wrong. And if I trusted her judgement enough to come all the way across the world, suppose there’s no harm in going a bit further.” Gerard sighs, tipping his head to the ceiling and visibly counting backwards from four. </p><p>“Oh, <em> don’t </em> --I’m not here to <em> use </em>you, Gerard!”</p><p>The ghost rolls his eyes. “I’ve heard that before, and you don’t get a biscuit just for going through the motions of saying it. You’re keeping me around because I’m useful, and because you want to be able to get home without some Stranger abomination murdering you halfway over the Atlantic. I don’t mind being around, because...well, I don’t hate being useful. There we are. And you’ll burn the page at the end of it.”</p><p>Jon weights that carefully for a moment, and then gives a solemn nod. “Understood. We’ll go to Portland.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The sleeping cabin of the train is empty at this time of day; Jon sits alone on his bunk, flicking absently through a paperback book. He’d picked it up at a shop opposite the station, desperate for something to keep his mind from the omnipresent sense of dread that accompanies being in danger every single second, and found the plot horribly uninteresting and the writing uncompelling.</p><p>After an hour and a half, which Jon feels is quite a display of patience on his part, he gives up and reaches for the Bible in his bag.</p><p>Gerard responds to him faster each time he’s summoned, slipping smoothly back into existence across the bunk. He flicks his gaze around the car, taking stock of the surroundings. Once satisfied, the man sighs and positions himself in the middle of it, where he can stand without directly touching anything. </p><p>“Half expected something would’ve killed you before you could call me up again,” Gerry comments, shoving his hands into the pockets of his billowing coat.</p><p>Jon shrugs. “That makes two of us.”</p><p>“You know, I appreciate principles as much as the next person, but you’ve really got to come to terms with the concept of self-defense, and fast.”</p><p>“I don’t believe I’ve ever even thrown a punch,” Jon admits, somewhat sheepishly. He feels oddly inadequate for a brief moment, recognizing fully exactly how experienced the person standing across from him <em> is </em>with the supernatural.</p><p>“How do you end up in this line of work without knowing how to throw a punch?!” the ghost says. His head is cocked curiously to the side, and his dark hair drifts in front of his eyes.</p><p>“I am an <em> Archivist </em>,” Jon hisses under his breath. “It wasn’t exactly in the job description!”</p><p>Gerard scowls right back, unimpressed. “And I’m a very particular brand of homeschooled literary snob, but I still know how to break a nose.”</p><p>
  <em> “You are a GHOST.” </em>
</p><p>“Well, at least I know how to get creative! Something you might want to consider learning if you plan to survive any of this, mate. Here, you make a fist like this--” Gerry says, and reaches out.</p><p>As the ghost makes contact with living flesh, the muscles of Jon's hands all twitch and spasm like a shock has been sent coursing through them. Jon feels his fingers flex. He and Gerard both stare, fascinated, as Gerard's tattooed fingers vanish beneath his burnt skin.</p><p>And then Jon watches his hand arrange itself into a proper fist, his digits moving with an uncannily borrowed expertise.</p><p>Fingers touch palm, and that breaks the suspension of disbelief. He hisses his surprise at the same moment that Gerard yelps. The spirit withdraws quickly and floats through to the top bunk once more, muttering curses under his breath in an array of languages that makes Jon's head spin. Jon shakes his hand wildly in the air, as though to clear it after brushing fingers through cobweb, and then he peers out and up to sees Gerry doing the exact same thing at the ceiling.</p><p>“Christ, that's <em> horrible</em>--” Gerry spits, flickering around the edges. He looks something like an offended cat, his form arched and his hair lifting eerily from his scalp with the force of his distaste. “You're all <em> sinewy </em> and <em> wet </em> inside, fuck!”</p><p>Despite himself, Jon snorts out a sound that's almost in imitation of a laugh. “Thought you were supposed to be the expert in the undead?”</p><p>Gerard's face twists in revulsion. “Haven't exactly gone cozying up to living people, now, have I? Who was I supposed to try it with, one of the Van Helsings? They'd have burned me out of spite if I got too close...damn, I should have probably just done that, huh.” He shakes his head. “Live and learn. Or, well, <em> not </em>, as the case may be. God. You alright, Jon? Didn't hurt you, did I?”</p><p>Jon shakes his head, holding his hand up to examine it. It tingles a little, the dead nerve endings beneath his burned skin alight with strange sensation. “It felt...odd. Still does. But not painful, I don't think.”</p><p>“Well, that's something, at least.” Gerard settles himself with a huff, pushing himself back to a seated position. His hands still flicker, the tattoos on the joints flickering in and out of visibility.</p><p>“Why do--” Jon begins, and then catches himself and backtracks, rewording the question out of his thoughts. “I still don’t understand why you tattooed yourself. That predated your direct association with Gertrude and the Institute.”</p><p>“It's not a pledge of fealty to the Eye, if that’s what you’re wondering,” Gerry muses, staring down at his tattooed knuckles. They stare back, the lidless eyes on each joint fading in and out of focus as the ghost's attention catches each one. “More like, a promise.”</p><p>“I'm not sure I follow,” Jon admits.</p><p>“Well. You know a bit about trading marks, yeah? You've got signifier scars all over you, entities staking out little claims. You feed them, they feed you, it's all very reciprocal and tidy, an even exchange between parties who both have something the other one wants, I'm sure you've heard the spiel. You're a Beholding man; they can't change that. They don't own you. But they can make sure everybody else knows they got their teeth into you and then spat you back out into the world. Taking, and offering.”</p><p>Jon reaches up to the thin slice at the base of his throat, fingers gently tracing the edge of the raised skin. “Only, those weren't inflicted by something else--you chose them.”</p><p>“Yeah, you get it. Flashing neon sign, really--keep looking my way, you big creepy ceaseless bastard. Keep guiding my hands as I drag myself through the spooky and forgotten places in the world, and I'll give you a show that's really worth watching. Nothing more, nothing less. Reciprocal, tidy, <em> and </em>discourages small children from striking up conversation with me on the tube. Sometimes.”</p><p>“And it worked.”</p><p>“Well, sometimes small children want to talk to me even more.”</p><p>“Gerard--”</p><p>“Gerry, please. And you tell me. How many statements am I in, down in your Archives? Something about me kept its attention, and I'm fairly sure it wasn't my stunning dress sense.”</p><p>Jon pauses to consider this, and Gerard pauses to consider him in turn. This Archivist looks properly <em> spidery</em>, and Gerard stands by his initial assessment that if the Eye hadn’t gotten its claws into him, the Web would’ve probably made a damn good attempt at it for the aesthetic alone. Jon is all limb, his legs and arms folded up tight against his scrawny body as he leafs absently through the book in his lap. He's tall when standing, sure, but there's no heft to him whatsoever. There’s specks of premature gray threaded through Jon's dishevelled hair like flecks of paint or forgotten cobweb, and an awful series of cratered round scars trails up the side of his neck and vanishes beneath the high collar of his shirt--Hive, that one. Nasty business. He looks like somebody the Entities would tear apart in a heartbeat. Looks like they've already tried, more than once. Gerry supposes it's impressive enough the man is still here. </p><p>And his hand--Jon catches the direction of his gaze and offers it up again for inspection. “Another mark.”</p><p>Gerry laughs, hollow. This time, he doesn’t make physical contact with the Archivist. “You met Jude Perry.”</p><p>Jon blinks at him, his eyes momentarily shifting behind his glasses. Or maybe it’s just a trick of the light? (Gerry knows better than to hope it’s just a trick of the light.) And then the Archivist’s face twists into a grimace of distaste as that piercing gaze of his flicks down to the burnt skin on his hand, “It’s that obvious she did it?”</p><p>“She does that.” Gerry waves at him, wiggling his fingers. The eyes shift with the memory of how skin should flex, though they don’t quite nail the movement and the resulting effect is a rather dizzying stutter in the air that almost mimics a blink. “Didn’t get me with that rubbish, but I’ve heard stories.”</p><p>“I’d heard stories, too,” Jon admits in return, reaching up to rub the back of his neck.</p><p>“Yeah, that’s how they screw you,” Gerard concedes. “A little knowledge is a dangerous thing, but a lot of it is just a pain in everybody’s ass. You’re the Archivist, though. I’m sure you know enough about <em> that </em>already.”</p><p>“I’ve been…” Jon begins, and then sighs wearily. “I’ve been doing a lot of learning on the job.”</p><p>“Yeah, I can tell. Nobody even gave you any scar care primers, huh?”</p><p>The Archivist blinks at him, somehow managing to look down his nose at the ghost while remaining primly seated. "I recently decided I'm <em> not </em>taking up a new skincare regimen, so don't go getting any ideas."</p><p>Gerry whistles low. “You know what? There’s a story there, in what you just said, and I’m not going to ask about it.”</p><p>“Good,” Jon says, and a small grin slips out of him. “Thank you, Gerry. Please don’t.” And then he returns his focus to his book, adding, “It sounds like the Beholding isn't the only horror you've found ways to manipulate.”</p><p>And oh, isn't that clever, Jon Seeing and knowing exactly enough to be certain that compelling a truth out of Gerard would damage his own case. The ghost grins, leaning back. “It does sound that way.”</p><p><em> Ball in your court, Jon</em>. The urge to go digging deeper, to split Gerard open like a piece of rotten fruit and go rooting around in all the truths that come spilling out of him--that much is palpable on the Archivist's face. It probably isn't even malicious, this curiosity of his. He probably can't even help it.</p><p>Jon sighs, the itch palpable. “And you don't want to talk about it.”</p><p>He smirks. “Wouldn't you like to know, huh? Isn't it driving you mad to wonder what else I've given up and traded away to keep myself going? You've finally met somebody who's got a grip on how to manipulate the forces that swirl past the edge of our comprehension, who can give you a deeper understanding of the ways in which a human can swim in this sea of fuckery and still keep their soul, <em> and he's not up to talking right now. </em>Sure, I'll tell you about the Eye, that's your domain. But I don't think I'll give you the rest of it right now.”</p><p>“Fine.” Jon takes a deep breath; Gerard wonders if it causes him physical pain, this <em> not knowing. </em>“Thank you for the information you have given me. I'm not certain if you need to be formally dismissed, but you can consider yourself free to go.”</p><p>Gerard nods but does not immediately leave, mulling the exchange over.</p><p>See, all things considered, Jonathan Sims does look absolutely doomed. He's in far too deep to pull back now, and if he has any idea how <em> completely screwed </em> he is, he's firmly in denial about it. That's obvious.</p><p>Which means, if Gerard Keay is going to be entirely honest with himself, that he looks like exactly the kind of person that Gerard would have tried to help if they’d met in another life. For all that he always yelled about not being in the business of rescuing strays, Gerard always seemed to find himself even less in the business of simply letting them die. Hell, if he'd met Jon while still having a life at all, they might even have become friends out of it. Not because he expected to have any success at saving the man from whatever horrible arcane fate has been brewed up for him, but for the principle of the thing. Sometimes you can spite the gods if you throw just the right wrench in the works, and Gerry’s spent a lot of time assembling a toolkit.</p><p>Or something of the sort. </p><p>Metaphors have never been his strongest suit, sue him. Took him long enough to refine the color comparison so it lands <em> just right </em> every single time, and it’s a damn good thing he’s only got the one field of expertise because having a practiced spiel like that one is the fastest way to get people to look impressed, shut their mouths, and assume he knows what the hell he’s talking about while he pulls their asses out of the (all-too-frequently literal) hellfire. </p><p>Not that Jon seems like he’s much inclined to accept well-meaning advice on avoiding said hellfire. He’d take Jude Perry’s hand, sure, but would probably balk at accepting one offered to help drag him out of the mess after he’s already stumbled into the flames. He’s stubborn, and full of pride, and seems resolved to not take anybody else down with him if he’s going to be burned either way. Wouldn’t have travelled to America alone if he felt otherwise.</p><p>Gerard likes him for those traits, at least. </p><p>Their relationship as it stands, though, revolves around a single flick of the lighter that currently resides in Jon’s shirt pocket. He’s not going to lose sight of that. This Archivist is not his friend, no more than the last one was, and so Gerard Keay allows himself to fade quietly back into non-existence once Jon’s attention is directed elsewhere. </p><p>If he’s needed, Jon knows where to find him. And if he’s not, there’s no point in giving too much away or getting too attached.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>It's dark and raining when they arrive in Chicago and have to wait to transfer trains, pavement neon-slick with street lights dancing across puddles. The streetlights here are shaped oddly, twin globes glowing against the low darkened sky. Gerard doesn't like the way the water goes clear through him, slipping unimpeded through his form to splash the ground below, and he positions himself beneath an overhang beside Jon out of habit. </p><p>He tells himself it's habit, at first, and not because it's disconcerting to see gravity decide that his own hands are not an obstacle worth paying attention to. And then he decides that fuck it, he may be a ghost who spent a life fighting monsters and burning haunted books, but he's still allowed to get the creeps every now and then. Ghosts are spooky and uncanny no matter how familiar you are with them, fight him.</p><p>Jon is making a phone call on a cell that looks like it's been through several small wars; Gerry doesn't have to listen hard to tell that it's a woman on the other end of the line, and she sounds livid. It's quite funny, really, watching the Archivist's body language shift as this mystery woman reams him out for not being anywhere near on his way back home. Gerry wishes he could still enjoy popcorn as he eavesdrops, to make a point. Debates briefly if it’d be possible to conjure some out of thin air, for the show of it, and then decides he’s probably got better uses for whatever spectral energy is keeping him running. Or if he doesn’t now, he’s likely to in the near future.</p><p>“Girlfriend?” he asks as Jon hangs up the phone.</p><p>“Not anymore,” Jon says, and then shuffles his feet. “Georgie is a friend. She has good reason to be concerned.”</p><p>“Guess she would have to be an ex, yeah. Seems a bit trite to say your career isn't really compatible with a personal life.”</p><p>“What? Oh, no, that’s not--” Jon crinkles his nose, shoving the phone back down into his bag. “That was a long time ago.”</p><p>“Hey, I’m not judging. I know it’s going to be a complete and utter shock, but I never really went in for any of that nonsense, myself.” He closes his eyes briefly, holding in an imitation of breath. “Not that I’d have wanted to, even if it wouldn’t have been a death sentence for anybody dumb enough to get within striking range. Still. Last time I got hit on, it was a horrible Flesh monster. Kind of put me off the concept...well, for life, I guess, is where that’s sitting. As if I needed more convincing.”</p><p>Jon snorts a laugh at that, flicking his lighter and lighting a cigarette with the whisper of flame. “Most people become varying degrees of horrible flesh monsters as soon as romance is on the table, honestly.”</p><p>“Is that why we get on so well?” Gerard leans in, instinctively, as though he could smell the smoke and steal some warmth instead of watching it simply drift right through him. “And here I thought we were bonding over my delightful personality, and not my lack of corporeal parts. Shame.”</p><p>“Not sure if that's an insult or not, or who's even being insulted here,” Jon notes, peering out at the rain.</p><p>Gerard shrugs. “Neither. Just an observation. Speaking of observing, you holding up okay? Seem shaky over there, Archivist.”</p><p>“I'm fine, I'm just--” Jon groans low in his throat and stomps out the cigarette, his hand going to the recorder in his pocket. “I think I need a coffee.”</p><p>There is a lounge back inside the train station, nearly deserted at this time of night. Worn brown chairs sit arrayed around cubbies and coffee tables, electrical outlets scattered about. Jon takes the chance to charge his phone again and pours himself a coffee from the self-serve stand. Large flat screen television screens along the beige walls blare news feeds from several different channels. When Jon focuses on one of them, the announcers are far more worked up about corn prices than really seems necessary. He tunes it quickly back out, turning his attention back to the lukewarm cup in his hands.</p><p>Gerry is looking out the window, pensive. “Something’s not right,” he announces, straightening in his seat.</p><p>Jon blinks.</p><p>The ghost lifts his hands. “Hey, don't shoot the ghost messenger. Waste of a perfectly good bullet, that.”</p><p>“I've got it on pretty good authority that ghosts are apparently able to shoot the living, actually.”</p><p>“Huh. That's--huh. Might have to experiment with that. No, something feels...off. It’s hard to describe. Never was good at that bit. But--yes, no, I’m certain of it. You’re being followed, still. Watch your back.”</p><p>They do not linger any longer than necessary. Jon dismisses Gerry, and boards the train again. This time, he does not even attempt to read.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>They reach Portland in the late morning, Jon’s eyes gritty from exhaustion. </p><p>He calls another car and tries not to sleep against the window as it steers him through the overcast gray of Portland during rush hour. The car radio seems to be broken, blasting static. He feels as though, if he listens hard enough to the crush of sound not tuned to any particular station, words and meaning will pop out of it eventually. Like the gray hum of noise will cohere itself into something worth hearing--worth <em> Seeing</em>. Maybe that’s worth saving for another day to examine. Maybe it’s just another small mystery. Maybe it’s even something of a comfort. Hell if he knows, these days.</p><p>Upon reaching his destination, Jon ducks into a cafe opposite the shabby bookshop in question and tries to catch his breath. He rummages in his bag for a statement, hoping it will stave off the imminent exhaustion for a little bit longer, and rubs his eyes again.</p><p>He summons Gerard about fifteen minutes later, right around the time he’s given up on making any progress with the statement at all.</p><p>Jon slides the cafe menu across the table for the ghost’s perusal. “Humor me for a moment, please. Which language is this written in, and is it different from this?” He offers the statement next, placing it beside the menu; the words swim nauseatingly behind his eyelids, and he shudders.</p><p>Gerry leans in, frowning as he studies the pages. His forehead twitches as he grapples with the compulsion to give a simple answer to the question, the effort flickering the tips of his hair in and out of being. “What language are you expecting it to be?” he says instead, carefully.</p><p>“At this point?” Jon lifts his glasses up against his forehead, rubbing tired eyes with the back of his hand. “Hoping for English, on the menu at least, but I have a sinking feeling I'm not that lucky.”</p><p>Gerard nods sagely, giving in. “Well, the statement's in Japanese and you seem to be stuck like that, too.” </p><p>Jon’s hand drops to go still against the ethically-sourced wood tabletop in front of him. He groans low, between clenched teeth, and squeezes his eyes shut. “Fantastic. I'm speaking Japanese right now.”</p><p>Gerry laces his hands behind his head, his own eyes bright with mirth. “My Japanese isn’t great, it's been a while since I've studied up to visit Tokyo, but yes.” When he speaks next, the words twinge oddly against Jon's ears; he's switched back into English, voice low and face earnest. “That'd be Beholding growing pains, I'm guessing? You might want to hash this one out with your patron sooner rather than later, it's going to get annoying if it won't even let you order a coffee in peace.”</p><p>“Sure, one moment, allow me to call up a giant disembodied eyeball and ask it to--Christ, this is <em> absurd</em>!” Jon feels his fingertips clench against the tabletop, nails digging into the scarred surface. “There's at least four different languages on that menu, between the stolen bastardized Italian and French pastry I've never heard of and Spanish coffee names, and even the fragments that don't make my brain feel like a wrung out sponge are nonsensical. Who puts <em> seltzer </em>in espresso anyways? That's got to be another mistake.”</p><p>Gerry peers obligingly back down at the menu, skimming it with a spectral fingertip. “Ah. Nope, it definitely says that about the seltzer.”</p><p>Jon drops his head to the tabletop with a thud. “It won't even let me order a coffee in peace,” he echoes.</p><p>“The horrors demand a lot from their followers, but I guess this<em> is </em> a new level of cruel and unusual,” Gerry says, trying and failing to look entirely sympathetic.</p><p>“I take it Gertrude never had this problem,” Jon says, deliberately not inflecting it into a question. He's also very deliberately not sulking, he's <em> sure </em> of it.</p><p>“Not that I saw. Maybe she just had it under control by the time I knew her.” The ghost shrugs. “Not like that's surprising. She'd had a lot longer than you to get this kind of thing in order. We don't all wait until our late thirties to get a crash course in horrible scary bullshit.”</p><p>Jon tips his head against the table to peer up at him, his exposed eye dark with resentment. “I'm twenty-seven.”</p><p>“Oh. Oh, <em> shit </em> ! You're just a baby, aren't you!” Gerry cackles. “A 90s kid, huh? You look like <em> crap </em>.”</p><p>“And you're far too old to keep your hair like that, but we all have our burdens to bear,” Jon snarls back, half-heartedly.</p><p>Gerry grins. “That's the spirit, pun intended. Least I don't have to worry about aging badly. And hey, you're back in English mode. All's well, then?” He nods towards the counter. “You go get some overpriced pretentious caffeine into you, you'll feel better.”</p><p>Jon sighs and does as he's told--not because he's been told to do it, mind, but because it was what he was trying to do anyways, before language broke. He orders a coffee, stumbles through the particulars of roast and brewing method with a bored-looking barista, and pays far too much to get stared at with slight disdain when he asks for room for milk. </p><p>Gerry waits at the table, winking in and out of translucency as the overcast sky outside the window shifts and sends a sunbeam streaming through him. It keeps casting bright coronas around his spectral form, the light getting tangled up against the dark edges of his clothing and hair like a fluorescence shifting through deep water every time the clouds part. </p><p>Absorbed in their headphones and Macbooks, the other patrons of the cafe don't seem to notice. Occasionally, as he mulls over how pervasive the uncanny truly seems to be, Jon still catches himself wondering why every single person in the greater London area hasn't turned up on his doorstep with a statement of their own to give. At moments like this, though, watching a crowd of Americans completely ignore the rather ostentatious ghost of a large goth man sitting calmly in their midst, he supposes the explanation is fair.</p><p><em> Georgie would adore Gerry </em> , Jon thinks out of the blue. <em> Or, at the very least, she'd want him to guest on an episode of her podcast. </em></p><p>The coffee handed to him is black. He does not argue, instead mumbling a thank you and taking it back to the table.</p><p>Gerard shifts as Jon sits back down  “So, I've told you a lot about me, and I'm thinking it's only fair you return the favor. What's your story, Archivist?” </p><p>Jon grunts, his hands seeking the warmth of the biodegradable recycled paper cup, and stares for a long moment down at the dark surface of the coffee inside. Slick oils have collected on the surface of it, barely-visible little rainbows of color amongst the black, and it turns his stomach. “Not much to talk about.”</p><p>“Try anyways?”</p><p>“There's <em> really </em> not much there.”</p><p>“Okay, fine!” He raises his hands with his palms facing out. “You don't have to. Just trying to be friendly, but I do get it. I've been unusually chatty, honestly. Guess knowing my story is over makes it a bit easier to tell. And hey, it's nice to see the sun occasionally. Get out, stretch my non-existent legs, see the sights, contemplate my untimely demise while taking in a change of scenery. It's made me downright cheerful,” Gerry says, utterly deadpan.</p><p>Jon snorts into his drink. “Remind me to steer well clear when you're feeling morose.”</p><p>“I'm dead, Jon. There's only so much cheer to be found there.”</p><p>Jon finds he doesn't have a counterargument. Instead, he sighs and relents. “I had my first encounter with a Leitner as a child. <em> A Guest for Mr Spider</em>. It was--”</p><p>“Ha!” the ghost blurts, interrupting. “Knew there was a trace of Web about you. Glad to hear my early exit from this mortal coil doesn't mean I've entirely lost my touch with these things.”</p><p>“Are you finished?”</p><p>“For now.” Gerry grins.</p><p>“It was horrible, and set me on this path, I think. I was raised by my grandmother after losing both parents, and--”</p><p>“Wait,” Gerard interrupts again. “Let me get this straight: I came off whining incessantly about my mum to an <em> orphan </em>?”</p><p>Jon sighs. “I assure you, I've heard worse. As long as you don't insist on reassuring me that I'm somehow better off for my lack of parental connection, I'm certain I'll cope just fine. And even if you do that exact thing, I should think I'll be able to manage.”</p><p>“Doubt the Eye would want you as badly if you had a family watching your back,” Gerry notes calmly, settling back against his chair. “It explains a lot, really.”</p><p>Jon nearly chokes on his coffee. </p><p>“I'm not saying that's any kind of <em> better off</em>, mind. Just that it's probably a factor. Have you considered making more friends? Might help you keep your head against whatever's coming after you.”</p><p>The back of his throat is scalded, and so it takes a moment for Jon to realize this is the worst cup of coffee he's ever had. It tastes like all the grit and bitterness of an ashtray, with none of the comfort. “I take it back,” he mutters to nobody in particular. “You need to <em> never </em> meet Georgie.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The torch beam skitters across the empty alleyway, light distorting as it passes through Gerard without actually casting a shadow on the brick wall behind him. The ghost evaluates the back door of the bookshop with arms folded, and Jon watches.</p><p>Jon’s stomach feels tight and tense with dread. “Well?”</p><p>“One moment,” Gerry says, tilting his head. His hair blows in a wind that Jon can’t feel; Jon taps his foot with impatience.</p><p>“You said you could do it.”</p><p>“I said I could probably do it. Never put an entire wall between me and my skin before. It just occurred to me how unpleasant it could be if I get stuck beyond the reach of my page.”</p><p>“Go head last, then, so you can hear me? I’ll dismiss you if there’s a problem?”</p><p>The look the goth gives him is acid. “Fantastic plan. I’m certain that will work wonderfully on whatever parts of me can’t hear you.”</p><p>Jon lifts both hands in a pacifying gesture. “You don’t exactly have ears on your legs, you’re not a bloody spider! Don’t do this, then! If we need to figure out a different way to--to break in--”</p><p>Gerard sighs, dragging a ghostly hand back through his hair. “I never said I <em> couldn’t</em>, Jon.” He shifts his shoulders, eyeing the back door to the shop, and--now that his pride is on the line--proceeds to walk calmly and smoothly right through it and out of sight.</p><p>Jon sees it coming, but nearly drops the torch all the same.</p><p>There is no rippling of the universe, no tearing of the fabric of things or distorting of the world to announce his departure. One moment Gerard is there, and the next he is not. It is uncanny and unnatural, and it makes the bile in Jon’s throat rise. He switches off the torch, and stands there alone in the dark.</p><p>A car rattles down the street, bringing with it the rancid stink of diesel from an overworked engine. The night sky above hangs low with clouds; it smells as though it might rain. </p><p>Jon is out there for several minutes before Gerard re-emerges with a shudder, pulling himself free of the bricks with visibly more effort than it took to pass through them in the first place. </p><p>“Gerry?” Jon asks, fumbling to bring back the thin beam of torchlight.</p><p>“It’s unlocked now,” he pants, pale and shuddering around the edges. “Had all the locks synced up with a computer security system, so I poked the circuits through the casing and thought malicious thoughts until something fried.”</p><p>“You look--” Jon starts, and then swerves hard around the word <em> ghastly</em>. “Are you alright?”</p><p>“No,” Gerry answers honestly, and then swallows down past the compulsion in his throat. “I’ll handle. Might not be able to summon me for a bit after this, though. I'm going to need a rest when this is over.”</p><p>Jon reaches out for the doorknob, and hesitates. </p><p>Gerard sighs with impatience. “I’ve been through worse than this, Archivist. I’ll tell you if I need to be scattered into vapor and sent back to the nothingness that makes up my experience of the afterlife thus far. I saw books in there, and I may not be able to <em> feel </em> things anymore, but some of them <em> crackled</em>. We’re on the right track. You’ll need to watch your step, you’ve still got squishy parts that could get mangled something awful if you wind up on the wrong side of a Leitner.”</p><p>Jon nods, and shoves the door open with a bravery he does not entirely feel. Gerry, hands now in his spectral pockets, floats over the threshold after him.</p><p>Inside, the shop is still. It smells like dust and the faintly-vanilla scent of old books, and rows of shelves crowd the space, their wooden supports almost audibly groaning beneath the weight. Gerard pulls ahead, leading the way to the sales counter. He ignores the cash register, gesturing instead to a handwritten sales ledger tucked beneath the counter. “Give me a hand with this,” he says, and then sighs. </p><p>Jon lifts the black-bound book up and cracks it open, peering over with a spike of alarm. “It's gibberish. Am I--”</p><p>Gerry shakes his head with a grin. “Nah, you're fine, not a language thing. Shorthand, see? Titles, authors, editions. I'll browse it, you keep watch.”</p><p>Jon nods his understanding, casting his gaze around the crowded room. His glasses are smudged, catching the light from the street and warping it oddly; he pulls them from his face and tries to wipe them clean on his shirt sleeve, heart hammering. </p><p>Behind him, Gerry tuts quietly.</p><p>“Do you need me to write anything down, or--” Jon begins, and is silenced by the look on Gerry’s face.</p><p>“I should <em> think </em>I still have the ability to quickly memorize what I read, Jon. Death hasn’t taken that from me. Nothing juicy in here, anyways. Not what we’re looking for.”</p><p>“Fair enough.” Jon creeps forward through the bookshop, ducking down to keep himself hidden from view of the street behind shelves of groaning paperbacks and racks of hardcover volumes. When a spot of the floor creaks menacingly beneath his foot, he backtracks and shines the torch around. A seam on the boards reveals a door set into the floor that opens via a switch on the wall.</p><p>Gerard looks up when Jon hits this switch, and the floor folds open to reveal a path down.</p><p>Jon flicks the torch into the dark of the basement, and then instinctively pulls it back to illuminate only the floor at the top of the wooden stairs. Gerard is a cold presence at his back, tutting under his breath. </p><p>“I’m guessing you’ve heard a fair few stories about the kinds of nasties that can lurk in hidden basements,” he notes, sounding bored.</p><p>Jon nods, swallowing down hard.</p><p>“You going down there, then?”</p><p>Jon hesitates. “I’d rather you go first. Squishy bits, and all that.”</p><p>“Oh, I’m sure whatever they’ve got down there is every bit as capable of tearing a ghost to shreds, too,” Gerard says brightly, waggling his fingers in an impression of some many-tentacled horror. “Least there’s a limit to the number of ways one can turn flesh, theoretically.”</p><p>“Is there?” Jonathan muses, lifting the torch beam again. “As far as I can tell, the only limit seems to be one’s imagination.”</p><p>“There you go,” Gerry agrees, floating lightly forward towards the landing. “Said it was a theoretical limit, didn’t I?” </p><p>Jon allows the ghost to drift forward first and then steps close behind, the wooden stairs silently accepting the ghost passing over them and then creaking beneath his weight.</p><p>“Christ, bodies are loud,” Gerard notes in a whisper. Jon sighs, shining the torch forward through the dark outline of Gerry’s coat to illuminate the opposite wall. Again, the light warps oddly. They reach a landing, turn, and then the basement of the shop stretches out before them.</p><p>Gerard drifts into the middle of the room, pausing. Both his palms lift, parallel to the floor, and he hums under his breath as he spins to evaluate the space, taking the measure of it in some way that reaches beyond what physical senses can determine. There are bookshelves covering every single inch of wall space, but they are nearly all devoid of contents. </p><p>The air makes Jon’s hair stand on end and sets the outlines of his skin prickling with a humming kind of electricity, something unnatural and entirely wrong in the atmosphere. He stays on the stairs until Gerard lowers his hand and sighs, gesturing him forward.</p><p>The ghost is pale in the thin torch beam, and he looks disappointed. “Thought as much--they’ve already moved them. Tread lightly all the same, yeah?”</p><p>“Of course,” the Archivist says, unnecessarily, and drifts onwards through the room. He scans the bookshelves as he passes, and the debris still littered on them. When his gaze falls upon a second leger, he knows--with something deep inside his gut that he doesn’t like thinking too deeply about--that this one contains much more interesting information than the one upstairs.</p><p>It is written in that same shorthand, and he holds it out for Gerry to interpret.</p><p>“Paydirt! Still had about a dozen of the things here as of two days ago,” Gerry announces after a long moment, his spectral finger skimming down the column. The eyes tattooed on the knuckles blink directly at Jon. “Think they moved them offsite when you took that one from your friend there. Must’ve called ahead, damn it all. Didn’t go far, though, from the looks of things.”</p><p>“I can’t imagine travelling with any number of Leitners is easy,” Jon muses, flipping the page to allow Gerry to read the next one. </p><p>The ghost shrugs. “Depends on the exact copies. Sometimes it’s doable if you know what you’re doing, and it’s long-term storage that’s the bitch. Looks like they sent them to a warehouse only about two hours out of town, waiting for this to blow over.”</p><p>“Then that’s where we go next,” Jon declares, lifting his head.</p><p>Something creaks on the ceiling above. Jon freezes; Gerry tenses.</p><p>“Don’t imagine you left enough of the security system intact that it automatically called the police?” Jon hisses.</p><p>Gerry looks almost offended, scowling back.”I’m a little bit better at B&amp;Es than <em> that</em>, Jon. I know when a security system is properly broken.”</p><p>“Then if that’s not the police--”</p><p>The steps are moving towards the staircase. Boots tread heavily on the first step.</p><p>Jon stands, his heart racing, and then he makes a run for it. He Knows Gerry is moving before he physically sees the ghost shift, speed and intensity of focus blurring the outline to a pale spectre. It collides with the broad-shouldered figure on the stair with a yell, and Jon shoves his way past. The brief physical contact he makes with the creature is viscerally unpleasant, but then he’s through, feet carrying him out the door.</p><p>There is a car idling on the curb; the door is open, and there are keys in the ignition. Jon chooses not to spend too much time mulling over exactly how his adversary managed to attain a vehicle, deciding that it was likely illegal and therefore there is no harm to be done in stealing it for his own ends. His hands shake as he twists the keys, and Gerry slips right through the passenger’s side door with a yell</p><p>“Bloody <em> DRIVE</em>, Jon!”</p><p>The Archivist does not need to be told twice.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>As he travels down the highway, dawn is still hours away. Jon has drawn his hood over his messy hair and his bag sits heavily on his lap. The Leitner inside it doesn’t throw any physical heat, but it still <em> burns </em>all the same.</p><p>He doesn’t summon Gerry this time, and feels him appear long before he turns his head to look. The ghost is visibly worn from the previous night’s adventures, faded around the edges like the ink of an old photograph, the corners and angles of his form shifting uncomfortably where they meet the worn fabric of the seat. </p><p>“I thought you said you’d need rest,” Jon says mildly. “I wasn’t going to call you up again until we reached Astoria.”</p><p>“Oh, I know,” Gerard says, lifting his hands to lace his fingers behind his head. “And I do. But, no offense, given your track record I wanted to make sure you found the highway alright and managed to get on your merry way without getting sidetracked by any number of supernatural nasties.” He pauses, tipping his head. “You’re an easy signpost for me to claw my way back to the world of the living for, somehow. Consider that a compliment, Archivist, if you want.”</p><p>“I do <em> not </em>have a track record,” Jon retorts, unsure how to process the rest of that sentiment.</p><p>Gerard just lifts an eyebrow. “Sure. How’s your hand feeling?”</p><p>“It’s fine,” Jon mutters. “The nerves have been acting up ever since you messed with it, anyways.”</p><p>“I already apologized for that, it was an accident. Here, let me see it.”</p><p>Jon offers the burned hand up for inspection, his other hand staying light against the steering wheel. Gerard’s spectral fingers are cool to the touch, like an early morning mist forced into human shape, and this time they stay carefully outside the boundaries of Jon’s skin. Gerry traces the lines on Jon’s palm lightly and then massages gentle paths out along each finger, pausing at each joint to move in small precise circles. The ghost mutters under his breath as he works, small chants in a language that plucks at the strings of the Beholding that have woven themselves through Jon’s brain. They don’t translate automatically, for some reason, but Jon feels something <em> click </em>safely and heavily back into place inside him.</p><p>No, those are not circles Gerard is drawing over him, consecrating every point at which Jon’s fingers move--they’re <em> eyes </em>, for Christ’s sake, with circles pupil-sharp in the middle of them. Jon sighs. “What are you--”</p><p>“Returning them to the Beholding,” Gerry interrupts, his voice flickering in and out like a detuned radio as he finishes with Jon’s thumb and lifts his fingers away. “Accidentally End-touched them there, I think, because I wasn’t paying attention with where I was going. Between that and the Desolation, too many cooks in the kitchen. Should feel better now, though.”</p><p>“Does it work like that?” Jon asks, finally taking his hand back and returning it to the wheel. “Just, making shapes in the air?”</p><p>“It’s more an...<em> intent </em> kind of thing,” Gerry offers, stretching himself out against the seat and propping his weightless legs up against the dashboard in front of him. “Wouldn’t even come close to doing anything on a civilian, but you’re already claimed, so it can’t hurt to remind everybody of that occasionally.”</p><p>“I hate that,” Jon says feebly, knowing even as he says it that it doesn’t matter how he feels about his patron in the least. He wonders if Elias is watching, right at this moment; the back of his neck prickles, and Jon knows in his gut that the sensation isn’t nearly as uncomfortable as it should be.</p><p>“Beats dabbling around, mate. You're this, I'm that, it's all so <em> boring </em>, to assume there's anything in this world that should be rendered over without cost or act like you can cheat any of these Entities out of anything they've decided to take.” Gerard sighs. “You didn't ask, earlier, which other horrors I'd made bargains with.”</p><p>“<em>Do you want to tell me</em>?” Jon asks, unthinking, the compulsion thick like honey and acidic as vinegar on his tongue.</p><p>Gerry shudders from the weight of it. “Not especially,” he admits, and then adds, “But given everything that’s happening, and that thing you’ve got in your bag now, I think I will. Congratulations, Archivist, you earned yourself a story.”</p><p>Jon rubs a hand to the base of his throat, swallowing hard past the lump of power that sits heavy against the base of his voice. “Apologies, I wasn't--you don't have to, Gerry. I won't make you.”</p><p>“And I appreciate that. Wouldn't say shit to you otherwise.” Gerard settles himself against the seat, trailing a hand through the glass window. He can’t feel the wind whipping past and through him, but he imagines it would be nice if he could. “You can pull over and get that tape recorder of yours going, I guess the Eye can have a taste of this one, too. You’re looking peaky, been a bit since you fed it last, throwing a tasty bite of trauma its direction might perk you up a bit.”</p><p>Jon glances back awkwardly at the bag in the back seat, already hearing the telltale whirring of tape. “It’s. Uh. Already on.”</p><p>Gerard sighs. “Course it is.”</p><p>“It does that,” Jon says, half-apologetic and half-resigned. </p><p>“I’ve noticed. Fine. I’ll just--start talking, then? You can prompt me for a formal statement if you want, or I could just try telling you a story and we could see how your patron feels about having to take me at my word.”</p><p>“Let’s do it your way.”</p><p>“Alright. So. The Beholding wasn't the first Horror I made an offering to. When I was thirteen, I thought I'd found a way to cheat them all.”</p><p>“Well, that’s suitably dramatic of you.”</p><p>Gerard rolls his eyes. “I’d found the book we stole, Jon. You know the sort--it’s one of the eager ones, willing to first meet you halfway and then swallow the rest of the distance in a single ravenous leap. Desolation-aligned. You feed it, it consumes whatever the hell you want. It’s not picky about what it takes, either. Thought I could warp the definitions a bit further, and turn it to my own ends.”</p><p>Jon pauses, considering that. “I thought you told me it was impossible to use these things without being bound by them, and you resented your mother for even trying?”</p><p>“Can <em> you </em> think of anything you've believed your entire life long? I was thirteen. I'd found something I thought I could get clever with, and I did the stupid thing with it. Hadn’t yet learned my lesson.” Gerry shrugs, stretching his arms out in front of him and lacing his fingers together in an imitation of a stretch. His hair is hiding the side of his face, and his expression is impossible to read. “You don’t need to know the details of what I tried to do, how I spent months sneaking around behind my mother’s back, gathering supplies and harassing her contacts and utterly mangling ancient rituals for my own purposes. I was young and stupid and old enough to be properly afraid of everything my mother had dragged me into, but at the end of it I managed to catch that hunger halfway. I wanted to protect myself, to impress her, to shape it to my own ends. I was so damn angry, and I wanted to stop being <em> powerless </em>against these things.”</p><p>Gerard pauses there for a moment longer than necessary, like he can feel how badly Jon aches to ask more. Like he’s testing the waters of it. When Jon remains silent, the ghost continues. “It was sloppy, my thirteen year-old self’s attempt at witchcraft, and it didn’t entirely work. When my mother found me like that, curled up on my bedroom floor, I was on fire with a flame that couldn't be seen. I remember it <em> hurt</em>, and then it stopped hurting, and that was almost worse. She was--well, livid, really. Took the book away. Guess she must have sold it on. Absolutely not sympathetic in the least, knowing there was nothing to do but wait for what I’d done to myself to pass. Took me ages to come back to myself properly, and after that, physical pain wasn't the <em>same </em>. Like when I was injured, there was something bigger than me waiting in the wings to consume it, and I couldn't feel a thing. And in exchange….well, I had a better sense of it, what to burn and what to not even try. How to tear things apart properly, so they could never be put back together. And I was still <em> me</em>, for the most part, I think.”</p><p>“That does explain a lot,” Jon muses, his tone carefully neutral.</p><p>“Doesn't it? Imagine that's why no books ever really bit back when I got at them, they knew there wasn't a point in it. When I got a bit older I started making offerings to the Eye to balance it out, dancing with opposed forces to keep myself neutral. To know and to obliterate beyond knowing are two completely different animals, yeah?”</p><p>“I imagine they would be.”</p><p>“So, that was me. The Beholding was guiding my hands and the Desolation had burned through my veins. Not a combo you see together often, that one. Not one that's worth fucking with, if it can be helped.” He laughs once, hollow-eyed. “Once my mother was done being furious, she thought it was so incredibly clever what I'd done. Thought I'd stolen all these wonderful gifts and hoarded them for myself. Didn't occur to her that I'd had anything taken from me in return.”</p><p>Jon remembers a statement with photorealistic clarity. He can picture Gerard all too well, shrugging off horrifying burns as though they mean nothing and pushing through the empty sensation where the pain should be. There is a blistering heat; a vending machine boiling; a razor’s edge; a sudden silence. And then feigning sleep in a quiet ward, waiting to be stable enough to leave. “I'm sure the cult of the Lightless Flame didn't see <em> you </em> coming.”</p><p>Gerard snickers. He is brushing through his spectral hair with a hand that, in life, was capable of slitting throats. The gesture is almost preening. “Yeah, I can imagine the Desolation didn't like that much at all, sticking a knife in the back of its own merry gang of psychopaths. But I guess it got revenge on me, too, in the end.” Gerry flickers around the edges, and for a brief moment he looks different. The laughter has entirely fled from him; he seems smaller somehow. A green hospital gown billows around his bony form as Gerard pulls his legs in tight and twists those same hands together in his lap. There are bruise-dark circles under his eyes, throwing delicate shadows that change the angles of his entire face. He looks sick, and he looks sad. He looks powerless.</p><p>“You didn't know you were dying,” Jon realizes, his limbs feeling cold and distant. “You couldn't feel any of the warning signs when you got sick.”</p><p>“...Yeah. That's right. By the time they found the cancer, I was already done for. Had been for months at that point, I just didn't know it. All they could do was try and make me comfortable. Know I didn’t make it easy on anybody, but--well, I was<em> dying</em>, Jon, I wasn’t exactly about to be polite about it.”</p><p>“I don’t blame you for that.” It's one thing to have read the description of how Gerard Keay felt when his life ended, that rising tide of cold inevitably rendered in simple words over and over and over again upon a macabre page; it's quite another to actually <em> see </em> his friend entirely defeated, even if just for a moment. Jon does not allow his gaze to waver, though, and he does not permit his face or voice to register any pity. He knows Gerard Keay does not want any of those things, refusing the softness of those emotions in the same way he’d refused the medication that would have soothed his ending. </p><p>Gerry is the one to look away first, biting his lip. His teeth catch against the spot where a silver stud should sit, leaving a small mark in this echo of his flesh. A shiver runs through him at that and then he is back to himself once more, all dark hair and piercings and the memory of leather. He leans his head back against the headrest. Scenery whips on past. “Doubt I could have done anything about it even if I had known. Probably would've tried to not run out of juice in fucking <em> Pittsburgh</em>, of all places, but hey. That's hindsight for you. If Gertrude told me she needed help saving the world, well, I'd probably have still gone.” He shrugs. “Might even have seemed more important to go than it already did. Isn't that something? She did this to me, desecrated my goddamn corpse to bind me here, and I'd still probably have followed her.”</p><p>“I wish I could have met her.”</p><p>“No offense, but she'd have snapped you like a twig,” Gerry snorts. He runs a thumb along the outline of one of the eyes tattooed on his opposite hand, falling pensive. “My point is, she's not the only one who didn't want to die in bed.”</p><p>“I've gotten that impression about my predecessor, yes,” Jon says. And then, more quietly, “I'm sorry you're still here. I know this must be--I know <em> pain </em> is fraught for you, but I recognize your situation is a painful one.”</p><p>“The kicker is, it isn't just about the pain. I mean, it hurts. It still very much does hurt, being like this, and not in the way I'd taken from myself but in a way that's deeper, somehow. I don't know if the same word even applies, but damned if I have anything better to call it. It's more than that--” Gerry pauses, glancing sideways over at Jon. There is a sudden fire in his eyes, a gripping quiet intensity to his voice that <em> burns </em> with conviction. “I was human until the day I died, and I'm proud of that. I don't want to stick around here so long that I stop being <em> me </em>, Jon.” </p><p>“I understand,” Jon says softly.</p><p>“Nah, you don't, somebody in your position <em>can't</em>, but that's fine.” He lifts his head, sharp and proud. “They don't <em>get</em> to take me away from myself. I'm tired, and I didn't spend my whole life fighting back just to let those motherfuckers get the last laugh now. I refuse.”</p><p>Jon finds that now he's the one who cannot meet Gerry's eyes. “I wonder all the time, if I'm….”</p><p>“Still you? Or just turning into whatever the hell the Archivist is supposed to be, Jonathan Sims be damned in the process?”</p><p>“Yes.” Jon swallows. “Exactly that.”</p><p>They're both silent for a long moment. Gerry does not backpedal or offer empty reassurances for the sake of filling the air, and Jon appreciates that. It feels better, somehow, hearing somebody else say it. More tangible.</p><p>“For what it's worth,” Gerry says finally, “you don't have to be human, Jon. You just have to keep giving a shit about being decent.”</p><p>“You make that sound easy.”</p><p>Gerry sticks his tongue out. “It's the hardest thing in the world, dumbass. Of course it's the only one that matters.”</p><p>“...We don't have to do this,” Jon tells him, finally. “I can get off at the next stop. I’ve got a lighter, I can--”</p><p>“Nah, I'm in this thing now. We'll see it though,” Gerry interrupts. The conversation has gone on long enough that he is starting to fade, rippling like water. Still, the ghost seems satisfied about something, smirking. “You’re still gonna light that macabre thing up and get me the hell out of here, mind. But if I’m going out, maybe I want it to be on my own terms, after all.”</p><p>Jon tips his head. “You've really changed,” he observes.</p><p>“Yeah. I have. That was a test, and you passed. We managed to have a whole conversation there about the kind of grim and vulnerable stuff your god normally slurps up off a platter, and once we got into it you kept yourself from compelling answers out of me the whole time. Not a single question.” His grin goes Cheshire cat translucent in the middle. “You're still trying, Jon. I may be a shadow of a person condemned by necromancy to exist within a pale imitation of life, but I'll do what I can to help you save the bloody world.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The shipping warehouse is two blocks from the ocean, tucked along a side street that slopes gently upwards from the sea. It is a small box of aluminum, rusted around the edges from the heavy ocean salt in the air, and unmarked by any signs. Under any other circumstances, Jon would pass right by it without a second glance; on this night, he feels the back of his neck tingle and a horrible Knowing begin to beat at the back of his brain long before the building even comes into sight. There is no doubt he is in the right place.</p><p>Jon steps out of the car and approaches it slowly, gravel crunching beneath his shoes and the ghost of Gerard Keay cautiously drifting at his back. </p><p>“Do you want me to poke my head in there?” Gerry asks, his voice a low hiss.</p><p>Jon is already pushing open the side door, ignoring all reasonable caution. Gerard supposes he can’t really expect anything else, at this point, and follows. Come this far, after all. May as well see things through.</p><p>Wooden shipping crates are stacked in haphazard rows on rusted metal shelves, obscuring sight lines. The air inside is still thick with salt, and an acidic tang swirls in around the smell of the sea. <em> Blood</em>, Jon thinks, and feels his body tense.</p><p>Even on guard, he is no match for what happens next.</p><p>Jon does not see what hits him. Instead, he registers only the physical sensation of an impact against his side. He feels himself fly bodily through the air, thrown by it, his feet not touching the ground. In midair, Jon has only enough time to realize that this is probably going to hurt a little bit before he slams heavily into something very solid--a crate, the wood splintering around him--and then it hurts very much. </p><p>And then he is aware of nothing at all.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Jon is unconscious. At least, Gerard hopes it's only unconscious--his form is small and prone amongst the shattered planks and sharp wood of the crates. <em> Gods, that man looks tiny when he isn't moving </em>. He thinks he sees the shuddering of breath run through Jon's chest, and frantically tries to buy some time.</p><p>“Hey, asshole!” Gerard taunts, and the Stranger turns away from the unconscious Archivist. It swings right through him, and Gerard feels an odd tingle as the hand passes clear through his torso. The Stranger stares at him blankly for a long moment, and then shrugs with a grunt before returning attention to the person in the room who can still be harmed.</p><p>There is no time for other solutions. Gerry is a ghost; he is helpless. He can not pick his friend up and carry him to safety; he can not wield a weapon himself. He can not--</p><p><em> --he </em> can not.</p><p>Oh.</p><p>Gerard launches his ghost at Jon, muttering an apology as he feels spirit and flesh knit suddenly and messily together when they collide. It’s <em> heavy</em>, this sudden anchor of meat and blood and bone, and Gerard thinks for a moment that he’s made a horrible miscalculation--there’s no way he can lift it, no way he can drag Jon out of the line of danger. It’s pressing down on him, his own stitchings of page and self made feeble and frail beneath the simple effort it takes to <em> be </em> in the world. Gerry can feel nerve impulses firing, muscles flexing, air moving, liquids sloshing, and it’s all <em> so much</em>--gods, how had he lived an entire lifetime without realizing how impossibly loud the beating of a heart can be?</p><p>The not-person lashes out with the bludgeon. And connects only with splintered wood.</p><p>The body of the Archivist is standing several feet away, and Gerard Keay is blinking out through his eyes. He’s exhausted already by the effort of keeping them upright, of moving them to save a life so foreign to his current state of existence. All the same, the amalgamation of the two of them lifts a hand to make a rude gesture. “Nice try.”</p><p>It lacks some impact, Gerry figures, since Jon’s hand is blistered and burned and not tattooed. Still, the thought has to count for something.</p><p>Jon’s attention is winking back into focus, struggling to return to consciousness. Gerard thinks another strong apology in his direction, imploring him to stay down for the moment. Jon’s bag is across the room; the Leitner is inside it. It needs to be fed if it’s going to work--they can solve that in a moment. For now, it’s the best weapon at hand, and Gerard drags his borrowed body behind the cover of another palette of crates. </p><p>Jon’s body is breathing loudly, already somewhat out of breath--<em>Christ, does the man ever exercise?</em>--and his smokers lungs are burning. Gerry feels the sensation of air moving through them, arteries throbbing as they struggle to convey enough oxygen around to where it needs to go. He’s keenly aware of every point of contact between Jon’s skin and the world around him--clothes, shoes, gravity, glasses, hair. To go from feeling <em> nothing </em> to feeling <em> all of this </em>is almost too much. Gerry forces himself to pay attention to the room around him, grateful he’s still moving and his instincts for a fight haven’t been dampened by death or time. He’s staying low, avoiding casting shadows, edging around the room. He can hear the Stranger’s footsteps heavy against the concrete, and it makes the back of his neck prickle with the anxiety of being hunted.</p><p><em> Hunted? Where--what’s--how am I not dead? </em>Jon thinks blearily at him, his mind fluttering with the frantic urgency of a baby bird inside a cage.</p><p>
  <em> We’re fine, I’ve got you. Let me handle the mechanical side of things while you wake up, I’ll hand back the keys and you can drive again in a minute. </em>
</p><p>Jon’s skepticism is clear, but he acquiesces without a struggle. Gerard realizes a beat later that the Archivist <em> trusts </em> him, gods only know why. His whole body aches as awareness of pain starts to come back, and oh--oh. <em> That’s </em> what that feels like. Gerard Keay had forgotten.</p><p>He reaches the bag and digs out the book, his hands clumsy but certain. This Leitner needs to be fed, and this time last week Gerry would have known he had nothing to offer it. He was dead, done, a ghost with nothing left to lose and nothing worthwhile to take away.</p><p>But now? An unlife rich with potential, motivation and desires, a world to save and even--dare he think it--a friend to protect?</p><p>A much, much tastier offering. Far more suitable. A far, far greater loss. </p><p>Another figure comes into sight, and then a third. All three of them, stepping towards the Archivist and the ghost.</p><p>“Come and get me, you bastards,” he calls to the Strangers, feeling Jon’s throat clench with the words as he rests the skin page on top of the open book. And then he flicks the lighter and pushes himself out of the Archivist’s trembling form with the same shuddering heartbeat, leaving Jon’s thumb pressed down against the flame and no trace of the End behind when he goes.</p><p>“Jon, light it, throw it, and <em> run!</em>” Gerry yells, his ghost flickering back into distinct being for just a moment. He can feel the Archivist watching him through wild eyes, Seeing him and hesitating.</p><p>“Gerard, I won’t--”</p><p>“You told me you’d burn it, Archivist!” Gerard shouts. “We got sidetracked, but it’s past time you kept your bloody promise!”</p><p>“<em>Are you sure</em>?”</p><p>Gerry turns back to meet his eyes, and nods once. He knows the sight he must make, all wild ink eyes blinking frantically across his body and dark hair whipping from a wind the living can not feel; he shifts into it, forcing himself to be more solid. Steadier. More real. Absolutely fucking certain. In that moment the truth of Gerard Keay’s life and death are compelled and, for once, both are understood. </p><p>“<em>I am</em>.”</p><p>Jonathan Sims lifts his hand in both resignation and goodbye, the flame wavering in his grip, and it gives the ghost the brief surge of strength he needs. Gerard pushes out the last of the incantation then, wavering and flickering from the force of it, and then shoves his spectral hands deep inside the spine of the Leitner at the same moment Jon moves the lighter to the page on top of the book.</p><p>Gerry loses track of everything after that, because in the next second the paper catches alight, and it <em> hurts</em>.</p><p><em> Gods, it hurts</em>.</p><p>Gerard Keay feels something ancient and arcane and <em> horrible </em> move full circle through his life, taking stock and measure of all he was and all that his becoming has stolen away. He feels it surge through the book and the flame, the lightless burning and coursing darkness, a mother’s love and a long line of stubborn hearts, the flayed skin and brutalized brain, the ink embedded in his knuckles and the blood all bitter copper in his mouth, the sunlight streaming through him and the raindrops pounding the pavement through his pale skin. It weighs his life and his death, slicing them up to measure the potential there. Gerry’s spectral form is twisting from the force of it, shuddering and sundering and screaming, coiling and recoiling inwards as the page that bound him to this unlife burns.</p><p>He feels the Desolation <em> take </em> those things, <em> consume </em> them, <em> destroy </em> them--</p><p>--and he feels it find them all <em> worthy</em>.</p><p>The world is on fire, and there is no light to be found in the flames. Jon is yelling, throwing the book as he was told to do, and everything is falling and collapsing and ceasing at once, and Gerard Keay feels a surge of triumph even as he is torn away into the dark.</p><p>It <em> means </em>something, this death. It’s important, somehow. He finds, with the last thought left to him, that he can be satisfied with that knowledge.</p><p>With the purest form of both fire and certainty, Gerard Keay finally ends. </p><p>
  <em> This time, his ending is not cold.  </em>
</p><p><em> And this time, he is not afraid</em>.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The Archivist makes his flight back to London with plenty of time to spare.</p><p>He sits in an airport lounge mulling over an overpriced American beer, and finds with a dull detachment that the alcohol does nothing to help quell the shaking of his hand. It was already burnt before; there are fresh bandages now on his fingers, and he supposes if he ever needs to be taken in by the police the condition of his hand will raise more questions than answers. He can’t see fingerprints on his skin at all anymore, it’s burnt all puffy and raw where it came in contact with that Leitner.</p><p><em> Another signifier, there. Good job, Archivist, layering them up</em>. He can nearly hear Gerry’s voice in his head, equal parts smug and understanding. He misses it already, and wonders how long it will be until he forgets the exact cadence of it. </p><p>At least he's got plenty of it on tape, to help him remember.</p><p>He hasn’t slept since fleeing the burning warehouse nearly an entire day earlier. He’d made his frantic way to safety while half-blinded from the flash of a dark-edged flame burning out against his sight, his skin burnt to a crisp and ears ringing and lungs burning from the acrid smoke and body aching in places he didn’t know he was capable of aching. What Gerry had done, what’d he’d summoned forth in Jon’s defense...well, it had worked. Gerard Keay was always nothing if not thorough in his dealings with these things. He'd read the coverage of the blaze in the papers the next morning--only ash remained.</p><p>Jon had booked his flight home without incident, and he feels safe in the knowledge that he is no longer being hunted. Not on this side of the ocean, at least. Part of him is tempted to disappear entirely, vanish into the heartland of America, changing his name and his hair and trying to create a new life. The rest of him knows any escape is so completely futile, the impulse is almost hilarious. Elias would know. The hunters would find him eventually. The Unknowing would make it all utterly moot, soon enough.</p><p>More than that physical pain, really, Jon now feels haunted--well, ironically enough, haunted by the silence left behind in the wake of being haunted in a literal sense. Gerard Keay did not go blindly to his second end, and he did demand Jonathan direct the fire that consumed him. Jon wonders if the fact that he did it when asked means that he’s any better than Gertrude; a horrible pit in his stomach wonders if this means that he is much, much worse. He’d almost gotten used to having a friend who knew enough about this world to be helpful, and yet hated it enough to be trustworthy.</p><p>Damn, he’d missed trusting somebody.</p><p>Jon raises his glass, almost unconsciously, feeling the chill of it sear against his tender palm. “Thank you, Gerry,” he says softly to the empty air in front of him. "I won't let you down."</p><p>There is still work to be done. He is needed at home--the world is still ending, after all. He thinks about Nikola Orsinov--the Unknowing--the myriad rituals and horrible weavings of fates and fealties greater than humans could ever know--the Horrors all numbered neatly, rank and file, all bleeding and oozing and squirming and twisting terror--and for a moment Jonathan feels overwhelmed by the magnitude of it all. It’s all so <em> much</em>, it’s heavy and it aches, and he’s so goddamn tired of poking his cautious, prying fingers into the darkness only to see what’s going to bite them back.</p><p>Still. There’s nothing for it but to keep moving forwards. Gerry made sure he can do this much. Least he can do to return the favor is save the bloody world.</p><p>When Jon returns his focus to his surroundings they are calling boarding for his flight over the intercom, a sterile female voice announcing the number and gate. He drains his glass and leaves the last of his American currency on the bar, paying for the drink and leaving far too large a tip for the staff. If Elias wants to fight him about receipts, he can bloody well try it. Jon knows how to throw a punch now.</p><p>And so, with empty pockets and a heavier heart, the Archivist finally returns home.</p>
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